The bus is crowded, jam-packed with disgruntled office workers and shoppers carrying bags and parcels (doesn't anyone in this city shop online?) and he's lucky to get a seat. As it is, he's jammed against the window by a large-boned gentleman cradling what looks like Nintendo's entire catalogue in his lap, and the air is thick with the scent of cologne, humanity and panicked consumerism.

There are times when he quite likes the festive season, Killian thinks. This, however, is not one of those times.

Sighing heavily, he pulls his phone out of his overcoat pocket, shoves the earbuds into his ears, and settles down to spend the next twenty minutes badly losing various ridiculous games involving fruit and bits of candy.

When the tap on his shoulder comes, he's tempted to ignore it. Commuters have so little sense of personal space, he's found, and he's certain the person sitting behind him has just clipped him with the corner of their bag.

The tap comes again, a little harder this time, and he pulls the earbuds from his ears, turning his head to see what manner of lunatic is attempting to engage him in conversation. His scathing greeting dies on his tongue, however, at the sight of the beautiful (and obviously frazzled) blonde woman gazing at him with impossibly large green eyes.

"I'm really sorry, I know this might make me sound like a crazy person, but can I borrow your phone for a second?"

He blinks, feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied. "My phone?"

She nods, gesturing towards the large purse sitting unzipped on her lap. From the looks of it, it's been thoroughly searched more than once. "I can't find mine, and I'm really hoping I just left it on my desk at the office." She looks at him hopefully, her pink lips curving in a winsome smile, and he feels something odd flutter through his chest. "I thought maybe if I could call it, one of my colleagues might answer it."

"It would be my pleasure." As if he's sleepwalking, he pulls the headphones from the top of his phone and hands it to a complete stranger, something he never predicted he would find himself doing in a million years. Then again, he thinks as she dimples a grateful smile at him, he never reckoned on a beautiful woman wearing a knitted cap (complete with a pom-pom, God help him) gazing at him as though he might just be her knight in shining armour.

"Thank you so much." Her fingers brush his as she takes the phone from his hand, and that odd fluttering in his chest reaches his blood, sparking a feeling he hasn't felt in months. "I only just upgraded the damn thing," she says brightly as she punches in a number, "and Henry will be so pissed if I've lost it already."

His heart sinks. Henry. Of course. It would be unbelievable if there weren't a man in the picture, he thinks darkly, admiring the curve of her cheek and the white of her teeth against her bottom lip as she waits in vain for the call to her own cell phone to be answered. "Any luck?"

"Nope." She shakes her head, ending the call with an irritated press of her thumb. "Do you mind if I try another number? Maybe I could call my office and see if anyone's still there."

"Not at all." Uncaring that Nintendo Man is shamelessly eavesdropping on them now, he twists himself around little more, draping one arm over the back of his seat. "I was losing quite badly at that bloody game. It's a relief to have an excuse to bow out gracefully."

"I'm terrible at those stupid games too-" She lifts her eyes from his phone screen as she laughs softly, her smile faltering as her gaze meets his with an almost audible snap. Her fingers still, the second phone call apparently forgotten as they stare at each other, and Killian thinks that out of all the improbable ways to meet someone who makes his heart pound, this would have to be the least likely of all. "Henry says I'll always be a noob, whatever the hell that is."

He considers his options carefully, then decides to throw caution to the wind. His stop is only ten minutes away, and he will never forgive himself if he lets this one slip through his fingers. "And Henry is?"

She hesitates, her thumb hovering over the phone screen, then she starts to punch in the second number, her gaze dropping away from his. "My son," she says almost defensively. "He's ten."

His gaze drops to her left hand (he can't help it, any more than he can help the smile that touches his lips when he sees that her ring finger is unadorned) as he watches her, her expression a beguiling mix of anticipation and determination. A moment later, she admits defeat a second time. "Damn it."

"No luck?"

"No." She hands his phone back to him, her mouth turned downward in a frown that he very much would like to kiss right off her face. "Which means I'll have to face a lecture from a ten year-old as he shows me how to lock my phone remotely for the second time in six months."

He stares at her, barely aware that Nintendo Man is heaving himself and his parcels to his feet and staggering towards the rear door of the bus. "You make a habit of doing this, then?" he teases as he gestures towards his own phone, and her eyes widen.

"Losing phones, yes." Her high cheekbones seem to pinken, or perhaps that's just wishful thinking. "Asking strange men to use their phones to try to find them, no."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," he quips, painfully aware that he's thirty-two years old with a proven track record at flirting with the opposite sex, and these paltry come-on lines are doing him no favours whatsoever. "Perhaps my trustworthy face made you feel safe."

She arches one elegant eyebrow at him as she zips her purse closed, then reaches up to press the bell. "Actually, it was pretty much the opposite," she tells him in a soft, faintly smoky tone, and he almost feels his jaw drop.

She's flirting.

She's about to get off the blasted bus, and she's flirting.

Bloody hell.

Before she can get to her feet, he holds up his phone. "In that case, you'd best delete your private numbers from my phone. There's no telling what a scoundrel like myself might do with them."

Her mouth curved in a small, secret smile, she rises to her feet, giving him a frustratingly fleeting glimpse of a pair of black jeans and matching sweater (all supple curves and long legs) before her coat swings around her. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

With that parting shot, the bus has shuddered to a halt and she's gone, slipping out the rear door into the early evening chill, leaving him feeling as though he's been blindsided by a perfumed sucker punch. He carefully slips his phone back into his pocket, wondering how soon he can call those particular numbers without looking like a desperate man.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to wait that long at all.

So, I found my phone. It had slipped between the ripped lining of my overcoat. Oops. Come over for some terrible buttered rum Friday night? It's the least I can do for ruining your quiet bus trip home.

The text message comes just before midnight that night, and he's never typed a reply as swiftly as he does his acceptance of her invitation. For her, he'd choke down any volume of shoddily brewed beverage.

Friday night takes a very long time to present itself.

Emma Swan (such a lovely name) works in publishing, has raised her son single-handedly since his birth, and has no shame with plying him with a second glass of buttered rum as soon as he mentions that he'd walked the fifteen minute distance from his apartment to hers.

The buttered rum is, as she'd predicted, quite terrible, but he doesn't care.

When the lad is collected by a friend's mother for a sleepover date, Killian decides to take his leave, not quite trusting himself not to make a bloody fool of himself with this woman. He's spent less than two hours on her company and he's already fighting the urge to lay his heart at her feet, but he takes courage from the way she's watched him since his arrival, her sea green eyes bright with awareness and playful anticipation. They've spent the evening talking of everything and nothing, and he can't remember the last time he felt so restful and erotically charged at the same time, and he knows he doesn't want to mess this up.

He drinks in the sight of her - long golden fall of hair in a high ponytail, the sweater that reveals just enough of her cleavage to make him hunger for more, the way her eyes light up when she talks about her lad – and decides he has tortured himself enough for one evening.

"I should go."

Her gaze slides over his face, lingering on his lips before finding his eyes, and he feels a jolt of pure lust slam through his blood. "Probably a good idea."

He's got his jacket in his hand, but he's no closer to moving towards the front door. Come to think of it, neither is she. "Thank you for your hospitality, Swan."

She smilingly rolls her eyes at his turn of phrase, and it's a fair indication of how enamoured he is that he finds it charming. "I guess you really are a gentleman."

His hands tighten on his jacket. Anything to stop himself from taking her laughing face in his hands and kissing that succulent mouth. "You sound disappointed, love."

Her green eyes sparkle. "I seem to remember being promised a scoundrel."

His heart leaps and, for the second time since meeting this bloody woman, he decides to throw caution to the wind. Tossing his jacket onto the back of the closest easy chair, he does what he's wanted to do from the moment she'd tapped him on the shoulder during that bus ride. Cupping her face in his hands, he brushes his nose against hers, any doubt that he's overstepping a mark vanishing when she touches him, her palms smoothing over his hipbones. "In that case, love-"

Her mouth is soft and warm, slick with rum and the faintest trace of lipstick. She shifts closer, her breasts full against his chest, and when her tongue curls around his, the shock of desire that shudders through him has him sliding his hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer.

She slants her mouth over his with a soft groan, her hips pressing against his in obvious invitation, and he forces himself to ease back, feeling as though he's just lost control of the proceedings, if indeed he ever had it. He presses a line of kisses along her jaw, hoping to diffuse the situation, but instead that only invokes another soft moan and the feel of her hands sliding around to stroke his back. "Swan-"

"I know, I know. Shit." She steps back, looking deliciously flushed, and smooths her hands down the front of her jean-clad thighs. "It's just, I told myself that once I'd gotten up the courage to talk to you on the bus, I wasn't going to mess it up by doing the whole hard to get thing."

He stares at her, still breathless from her kiss and the feel of her in his arms. "What?"

This time, he's not imagining the blush that steals across her face. "I've caught your bus a few times before," she mumbles, digging her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Losing my phone seemed like a sign that maybe it was time to talk to you."

Whatever he was expecting her to say, it definitely hadn't been that. "I've never seen you on my bus," is his inept reply (God help him, the blood obviously hasn't returned to his brain from its journey south). "How is that possible?"

She smirks. "Maybe you were too busy losing those games on your phone."

"Obviously, I need to redress my travelling activities, because not noticing you is bloody unforgivable."

That earns him a bright - if sheepish - smile, and a gentle push towards the front door. "Jesus, that buttered rum has a lot to answer for," she mutters, and he catches her hand in his.

"Perhaps we could try this again sometime, without the buttered rum." He allows himself the indulgence of kissing the back of her hand, enjoying both the softness of her skin against his tongue and the way her eyes widen. "May I take you to dinner?"

"You may." She licks her lips in what he's sure is a harmless nervous gesture but it still has the effect of making his groin tighten almost painfully, then she smiles mischievously, her eyes bright and clear despite the rum they've just shared. "You've still got my numbers, right?"

Leaning forward, he presses a chaste kiss to her cheek (he might be filled with the urge to toss her over his shoulder and show her that he can be any manner of scoundrel she might so desire, but he's still a gentleman) and makes a mental note never to tell her how many times he'd checked to make sure that he'd correctly stored her information. "I'm sure I do."

He tells her two days later, when they're sweat-slicked and breathless, lying in a tangle of bare skin and sheets in his rumpled bed.

She laughs, a throaty, almost filthy sound that has his spent flesh stirring again in a heartbeat, then confesses that she'd realised her phone was in her coat lining as she was making that first phone call. "It was on silent but I could feel it vibrating."

He laughs, admiration at her boldness sweeping over him as he presses a kiss to her damp shoulder, mouthing at her smooth, salt-tinged skin. "You're more of a scoundrel than you realise, Swan."

She runs her hand down his chest and belly, stroking her fingertips down, down, down until she's cupping him in her palm, coaxing him back to life, bloody magic in her every touch. "Takes one to know one, Jones."

"Indeed it does, love." He flips her onto her back, pressing her hips into the mattress with his own, feeling a sense of immense satisfaction at her gasp of pleasure. "Of course, there's a lot to be said for getting to know each other even better."

"I agree." She arches beneath him, her fingernails digging into his ass. Her thighs tighten around his hips, the slick heat of her body opening up to his like a flower, and his heart almost leaps clean out of his chest. "Just to be on the safe side."

"Safety has nothing to do with it, love," he mutters as he presses himself deep inside her, hot and tight and almost enough to ruin him before they've even begun. "We agreed we would be on our best behaviour this evening and look at us." He kisses her, slow and lazy, and feels her mouth curve into a smile beneath his. "You're a bloody siren, you are."

Her hands slide between them to delve and tease, making him catch his breath even as he starts to move inside her. "Sirens don't carry cell phones."

They both know there's no need to remind her of her apparent inability to keep track of her phone for any length of time, and he's grinning even as he's bending his head to her breasts. "I rest my case, darling."

Henry is indeed a wizard when it comes to video games. Thanks to the lad's coaching, Killian manages to defeat those blasted fruit and bits of candy on his phone to a satisfactory level, then he decides he's had enough of such things. Besides, when a man has such beguiling company as Emma Swan on his twice-daily bus trips into the city, he has much better things to do with his time.

(and hands.)